


Leave Us Standing in the Dark (But I’m Not Going Anywhere, Love)

by afterthenovels



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, M/M, Married life isn't all fun and games, Post-Canon, emotional angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 06:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13405707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterthenovels/pseuds/afterthenovels
Summary: They’ve fought before, of course, spent the months before their second break-up doing little else, but ever since they got married they have gotten better at it. They have worked hard to understand each other, and even if they’ve fought since then, like all couples do, they have always resolved the arguments quickly and apologized and talked about them.But this was different.





	Leave Us Standing in the Dark (But I’m Not Going Anywhere, Love)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote about one third of this fic almost a year ago, after I had spent several days listening to the first live versions of Darren performing _The Day That The Dance Is Over_. The song has had a special place in my heart ever since I heard it for the first time, and after listening to it on repeat for days, I had the sudden urge to write (that’s what great songs will do to you). So I did, the song playing in the background — but then life happened, work happened, and the fic I was writing was left unfinished and forgotten. 
> 
> A couple of days ago I was going through my files and found the text again. I read it through and felt pretty good about the words I had written — a real accomplishment these days —, so I decided to finish it. Work was slow and I was missing Glee a little more than usual, so why not. 
> 
> And that’s when the text turned into this emotional and sappy angst fest with over 6,000 words and a title that’s just a bit too long (and an author's note that's definitely too long). But hey, wordy is the way I roll. This time I was listening to the studio version of _The Day That The Dance Is Over_ while writing, and that’s where the title of this fic and some other references in the story are from. It’s still my favorite Darren song. I still want it to be played at my wedding, if I ever get married. It makes me feel something that I cannot put into words, not really, something almost indescribable, and these 6,000 words are my feeble attempt to recreate that feeling. I don’t know if it actually works, and there are sentences I’m not completely happy with, but I’m still glad that I tried.
> 
> So yes. Go listen to that song. And I hope this fic makes you feel something.
> 
> * * *

Kurt has the dream when he’s away from home and New York for a Vogue.com meeting, the first time he and Blaine are on the other sides of the country since their wedding.

Well, it’s not really a dream — a nightmare, more like it.

In it he’s standing outside the door to his and Blaine’s apartment, the one they rented when they moved back to the city as newlyweds, hopeful and stronger than before. There he is, right in front of the familiar wooden door frame with a long scratch on it on the right-hand side, caused by Sam lugging their belongings into the apartment a bit carelessly on moving day. Kurt was horrified, Sam was frantic and apologetic, but Blaine just laughed it off, saying that at least now they would recognize their own door from all the other identical doors on the same floor.

They agreed to keep quiet if their landlord happened to ask about the scratch, and Sam even promised to paint over it the next time he was in town. Except the scratch is still there, almost a year later, even though Sam has visited them at least a dozen times already. Kurt doesn’t even mind it that much anymore. Blaine was right — it does make their doorframe stand out, as silly as it sounds.

In the dream Kurt touches the scratch, lets his index finger slide over it and down the straight line it makes, and as if by magic, as if his finger is an eraser and the scratch was only made by a pencil, the scratch disappears from the door frame beneath his touch, like it was never even there.

He knows he should be scared, or at least confused, but he just stares at the now clean and unharmed door frame for a while, feeling a little unsettled. The hallway is silent, void of all the usual quiet echoes of conversations from the other apartments or the steady hum of someone taking a shower or vacuuming, and suddenly Kurt doesn’t want to stay there anymore, doesn’t want to stand there listening to the silence, the unsettled feeling growing inside his chest.

He tries the handle of their apartment door, and it opens, the unlocked door sliding easily open when he pushes it forward. It doesn’t give that barely there groan it usually does, and Kurt steps inside slowly, scared that he might see something unpleasant, his brain already realizing that something’s wrong with their building but not really knowing what.

The apartment looks as it should — there’s their comfortable couch, there’s the piano Blaine’s mother and Kurt’s dad bought for them as a housewarming gift (“You need to have something to accompany yourselves with,” his dad had said, clapping both him and Blaine on the shoulders before pulling them in for a hug), the rug they spent several hours choosing, the car seat chair Kurt dragged here all the way from Bushwick, the books and comics Blaine arranged carefully and the DVDs and records Kurt arranged carefully, the open kitchen with a gorgeous view over the neighborhood, the one they like to look at every morning when they’re having coffee and talking about their days.

It’s all there, right where it should be, but it still feels... all wrong, somehow. The apartment feels empty, lifeless, like it’s from an IKEA catalogue and not an actual home. The lights are out, and the cloudy sky outside doesn’t let in too much sunlight, leaving the shadows long and dark.

“Blaine?” Kurt calls out into the silence, stepping further into the apartment. “Are you here?”

His footsteps sound heavy in the silence. He walks to the piano, surprised to notice that there are none of the usual piles of sheet music laying on top of it. The piano is more Blaine’s than his, though Kurt does use it sometimes as well, but he has never learned to play it as well as Blaine does. Blaine is the one who uses it for his school work almost every day, the one who has started composing with it — beautiful and honest tunes he only let Kurt hear for the first few months, until both Kurt and Rachel convinced him to perform them in front of an actual audience. Kurt loves seeing how happy Blaine gets when he’s playing, how his shoulders relax and how he seems to forget all his troubles the second his fingers touch the keys. The piano and the window ledge right next to it are usually littered with sheet music, all annotated with Blaine’s small and neat cursive, and it feels odd to see its shiny surface so empty.

“Blaine?” Kurt calls out again. When he turns around, he suddenly realizes that their shelves don’t actually look that neat — they look half-empty, as if someone has taken half of the books and records and forgotten to organize the rest. Kurt squints at the shelves in the low lighting, and something tightens around his heart when he notices that it’s not just a half that’s missing. It’s _Blaine’s_ half, all of his comics and books on music theory and the silly young adult novels he still reads sometimes and the wide variety of music from old disco to current pop he owns. They’re all gone, with just Kurt’s Broadway records and fashion magazines peeking out from the shelves.

“Blaine?” Kurt yells. He can hear the fear in his own voice, and he almost runs into their bedroom. The silence and emptiness stretch there as well, and everything looks almost as it should, but when Kurt twirls around right next to their bed he notices that all the photographs they have on their nightstands are gone: the family photos, the one from their wedding and the one from their first prom, the one where they’re standing with their arms around Finn’s tall shoulders. Blaine’s guitar, the old one Sam convinced him to buy from the thrift store, is gone as well, just an empty spot in the corner where it should be, and the glass of water Blaine always keeps next to the bed is nowhere to be seen.

“Blaine? Where are you?” Kurt shouts, his voice echoing in the bedroom. This isn’t his home — this isn’t _their_ home. The whole point of their home was to be theirs, both of them. They talked about it a lot after their marriage, when they were trying to make sure they wouldn’t make the same mistakes again, and they agreed that they should both have a say in what their apartment would look like. And they did, and it worked out perfectly, and Kurt loves their home, loves how it feels and how it’s theirs and how he can curl up next to Blaine every evening and wake up next to him every morning and feel like the luckiest man on earth—

But this is not it.

The bedroom is starting to feel smaller, suffocating, and Kurt turns around again, hoping to see something of Blaine’s, anything, even if it’s just one of his bowties forgotten on the bed or the whiff of the hair gel he uses lingering around the room, but they’re all gone.

As if Blaine... is gone.

“Blaine!” Kurt yells. The shadows turn darker, closing in on him and covering everything familiar in the room. It feels so empty, so lifeless, and when Kurt tries to back away from the shadows, his throat constricting and his hands shaking, he trips over something and falls backwards, keeps falling even though he should’ve hit the floor already, the familiar but unfamiliar room disappearing into shadows like he was never there, like Blaine was never there, like they—

And that’s when he wakes up.

It’s not like in the movies, where people sit up suddenly and gasp for breath, their bodies drenched in sweat. Kurt just opens his eyes, as if he has been under water and is finally diving towards the surface, his own heartbeat loud in his ears and his breathing sharper. He lays there, the hotel room bed warm and big and empty around him, and stares at the ceiling, trying to calm his breathing and re-orient himself into the real world.

He’s not in their apartment. He’s not even in New York. He’s in a hotel room in Los Angeles, a whole continent between him and Blaine, with Isabelle sleeping in a room across the hall from his. They have a few meetings early in the morning, viewing potential collections and such, and Isabelle insisted that he come along, to be her assistant and another pair of ears and eyes. It was a chance he took immediately, not even thinking about it or asking Blaine, excited about the chance to see L.A., even if it’s just for a short trip, and...

Kurt kicks the covers off and sits up, rubbing a hand over his face and feeling the dryness of stubble on his chin. He’s not excited anymore; he feels drained, to be completely honest. They had an awful fight right before he left, he and Blaine. It wasn’t about the trip to L.A. or being separated for a few days — Blaine was happy for him, of course he was, kissed him senseless when he found out — but about something insignificant, the dishes or the dirty laundry or a towel left on the floor. The fight escalated from there, both of them tired and stressed out after a few busy weeks, and before Kurt knew it, Blaine was already storming off, frustrated tears in his eyes and slamming the door behind him.

He can’t remember the exact words they threw at each other, but he knows they were something bad. When you know someone as well as they know each other, it’s almost too easy to know which buttons to push to make it hurt the most. It scares Kurt sometimes.

Kurt didn’t call Blaine on his way to the airport, didn’t even check in to see if he was okay or find out where he went after he left their apartment. The regret didn’t hit him until he was on the plane, locked in and up in the air, and after that he spent the rest of the flight feeling anxious and horrible, cursing himself for leaving without trying to make things right, even if he was in a rush and even if Blaine was the one who stormed out.

When he got out of the plane, he had one short text message waiting for him.

_Stay safe. Let’s talk when you get back?_

The smiley faces and little hearts Blaine is so fond of using were noticeably absent.

He texted back an _Okay_ and a heart, and hasn’t heard from Blaine since.

They’ve fought before, of course, spent the months before their second break-up doing little else, but ever since they got married they have gotten better at it. They have worked hard to understand each other, and even if they’ve fought since then, like all couples do, they have always resolved the arguments quickly and apologized and talked about them, learning and learning and learning some more. It’s been difficult, but it has been worth it — the long nights spent crying and talking in hushed tones and the rough sessions they’ve both had with their therapists.

But this was different. The fight itself is muddy, lost in the heat of the moment, but Kurt is pretty sure Blaine called him cold or heartless, or both of those things, and he’s pretty sure he himself spat their first break-up right in Blaine’s face, the cheating he has forgiven a long time ago and promised himself to never use against Blaine ever again.

He knows Blaine still beats himself up about it. He knows it will always be a sore spot for Blaine, like an old wound that refuses to close completely, no matter how many therapy sessions he has or how many times Kurt tells him it’s in the past. But there he went, accusing Blaine of things he knows are untrue and would only cause more pain.

No wonder Blaine stormed out, he thinks as he stares at the hotel room wall in front of him and the abstract painting hanging on it.

What’s worse is that they have never, not once since they got married, gone this long after a fight without talking to each other. Blaine hasn’t called him, and Kurt hasn’t called Blaine either. This is not something they can resolve over the phone with thousands of miles between them. He needs to see Blaine’s face, needs to hear the tone of his voice properly, not over a buffering Skype call. He needs to be able to reach over and take Blaine’s hands in his own when they start to tremble and know that Blaine will be right next to him if and when he starts crying himself. He needs to feel Blaine. Not just see him or hear him, but actually feel him.

He needs to be able to pull Blaine in his arms and know that they will get through this as well.

But Kurt is not in New York. He’s in Los Angeles, sitting on a hotel bed instead of talking to his husband, and even if they are stronger than before, the distance makes him feel so, _so_ scared.

 

-

 

Isabelle pulls him aside after the last meeting, her eyes kind and worried.

“Do you want to get coffee before we go back to the hotel?”

Kurt nods, blinking his eyes a bit too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s.”

They get coffee and disgustingly greasy donuts from a bustling coffee shop right next to the office building where their meeting was. Isabelle might look like she eats nothing but soups and green smoothies, but Kurt knows that her taste in baked goods is absolutely atrocious. He grabs a few extra napkins from the counter while they wait for their coffees and is silently thankful for the easy comfort of greasy food.

The coffee shop has only one empty table left, but Isabelle manages to snatch it from a few teenagers with a half-victorious and half-apologetic smile. Kurt cradles his coffee cup between his hands once they’ve sat down, the empty rooms from his dream filling his mind while Isabelle busies herself with her donut. He has always remembered his nightmares a bit too vividly for his own liking, especially since he wasn’t able to fall back to sleep once he had woken up and spent the rest of the night staring at his phone, hoping it would ring and at the same time knowing that it wouldn’t.

“So? Do you want to talk about it?” Isabelle asks after a moment and wipes her hands on a napkin. Her donut is already gone. “You barely listened to a word Jackson said, and I know how excited you were about this particular meeting.”

Kurt takes a breath and then exhales slowly. Isabelle will only worry more if he doesn’t tell her, and he doesn’t want to ruin her trip as well. “You... You know how my dad has had a few health scares over the years?”

Isabelle nods, and then her eyes widen in fear. “Oh my god. Is he okay? Do you need me to change your return flight to—”

“He’s fine,” Kurt interrupts quickly, immediately realizing that he started the story the wrong way. “I just called him the other day, and he kept grumbling about how slow one of his new workers is. He’s good.”

Isabelle’s shoulders relax and she smiles. “An annoyance I can understand very well. I swear, sometimes I wonder if that new intern of ours even wants to work for us. She certainly makes me appreciate our previous intern even more,” she adds and winks at Kurt, her heel nudging his foot under the table.

Kurt smiles down at his coffee cup. “Thanks.”

“So... If it’s not your dad, what’s the matter? Is it something to do with Blaine?”

Kurt sighs. His boss is definitely perceptive. “We had a fight right when I was leaving for the airport, and...” He hunches his shoulders. “Ever since I was little, I’ve had the same kind of nightmare every time I’ve been worried or scared about someone or something I care about. When my dad was in the hospital for one of his health scares, I kept having this dream of walking through our house and being all alone in it, with all the traces of my dad gone — and when I didn’t get into NYADA, I had a dream where I kept walking around downtown Lima, all alone after everyone else had moved on.”

He can’t even talk about the dreams he had after Finn. No one knows about them — well, no one except Blaine.

“Yikes.” Isabelle grimaces. “Your subconscious can be a real bummer.”

“Tell me about it,” Kurt groans and takes a sip of his coffee. It’s not New York coffee, and it’s not the coffee Blaine makes him every morning, but it’s still coffee. Coffee is always a safety blanket of sorts.

“But that does make sense, in a way,” Isabelle goes on. “You’re worried, so of course your subconscious will use it as a material for nightmares.” She tilts her head. “I’m guessing you had that nightmare again, then?”

Kurt nods. “I was in our apartment, in New York, and everything looked as it should, but... But then I noticed that all of Blaine’s belongings were gone, every single part of _him_ in that place, and I just—” He has to stop and swallow against the sudden lump in his throat, his voice going tighter. “We haven’t gone this long without speaking to each other after a fight. Not since the wedding. Not since the break-up, to be honest.” He gives a humorless laugh. “And you don’t want to know how much this dream reminded me of the dreams I had during our break-ups.”

Isabelle reaches out over the table and takes his hand, her face softening. “Oh, Kurt. Have you called him, you silly boy?”

“No, he— I got a text from him when we landed, saying that we’d talk once I got home, but I just...” Kurt shakes his head. “I just feel so worried. I know we’ve gotten better, and I know we love each other so much, but I—”

“But you’re still worried,” Isabelle finishes for him, repeating his words back to him, and somehow that’s all it takes for the fears to come tumbling out of Kurt.

“It just sometimes feels like everything we have is still so fragile, you know?” he tries to explain, embarrassed that he’s getting this emotional in a crowded coffee shop in Los Angeles of all places. He lowers his voice a little. “We’ve worked so hard on our relationship and on ourselves, but it’s still... I’ve lost him twice already, so what’s going to stop it from happening a third time? For good?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know if I could handle it. The two previous times were horrible enough.”

“You yourself will stop that from happening,” Isabelle says firmly and squeezes his hand. “I’ve seen you and Blaine together. You two have fought to get where you are today, Kurt, and you will continue fighting if that’s what you need to do. That’s what the ring on your finger stands for, right?” She shakes his hand a little to get him to look up. “This is just the fight and the distance talking. Maybe Blaine just needed some space — maybe that’s why he asked you to wait until you get back before you talk. If you had a big fight, trying to resolve it over the phone could just make things worse.”

Kurt exhales. “I know. I know all of that, and I know he usually does need his space after a bad fight, but I just...”

“You’re still scared of losing him.” Isabelle’s smile is small and kind. “I hate to tell you this, Kurt, but that’s what love is like.”

Kurt lets out a wet laugh. “Why are you suddenly so good at stating the obvious?”

“I’m always good at that, especially when my favorite employee needs the reminder. Besides, sometimes we all need to hear the obvious before we can take the necessary steps to make things right.” Isabelle nudges the other greasy donut his way. “Now, are you going to eat this donut, or are you going to force your amazing and clever boss to eat it all on her own?”

Kurt laughs and wipes the back of his hand over his eyes. He’s still worried, still scared and anxious, but at least he feels a tiny bit better. At least momentarily. Enough to get through the day and respect Blaine’s wish to talk about it all once he gets back.

“Split it?” he asks.

Isabelle fakes a small swoon, already reaching for the donut. “Oh, Mr. Hummel, you know me so well.”

 

-

 

The scratch on the doorframe is still there, right where it’s supposed to be.

Kurt stares at it for a long time, carry-on in one hand and his keys in the other. One of their neighbors is obviously taking a shower, the familiar whoosh of water in the pipes faint through the walls, and a few people are talking loudly in the apartment at the end of the hallway, their voices getting louder and quieter one at a time.

He’s not in a dream.

He unlocks the door, and even before he pushes it open he can hear music from their apartment, the familiar notes of Blaine playing the piano and working on one of his original compositions. A part of Kurt was afraid that Blaine wouldn’t be there when he got back, that the apartment would be empty and quiet like it was in his dream, but the moment he hears the slow rhythm of Blaine’s fingers over the keys the tight knot inside him unravels, something loosening and sighing in relief.

He hasn’t lost him.

Most of the lights are out, but the lamp over the piano is on, illuminating Blaine where he’s hunched over the keyboard. The light is making his haphazardly gelled hair shine, and the bowtie around his neck is untied, the uppermost buttons of his shirt undone. He has obviously been to his classes at NYU, judging from the clothes he’s wearing and the messenger bag dropped next to their coat rack — he wouldn’t be wearing a bowtie if he hadn’t left home all day —, but he looks tired, like he has slept as miserably as Kurt has. There are bags underneath his eyes, and the harsh light from the lamp is making them look even more pronounced. His outfit is impeccable, but the clothes are a little rumpled, and his hair looks like he has been running his fingers through it for a while.

He is the most beautiful thing Kurt has ever seen. He always will be.

Kurt pushes the door closed with a loud click, and Blaine’s fingers falter on the keys, the resulting mess of notes resounding through the apartment. He looks up, his eyes blinking a few times like they always do when he has been immersed in music for a long while and comes back to the real world again. Seeing the familiar habit makes the knot in Kurt’s heart unravel even more.

“Hey,” Blaine rasps and then clears his throat. “Um, hi,” he tries again.

“Hey,” Kurt says quietly.

He lets go of his carry-on and drops the keys in the bowl near the door before looking around the apartment. Everything is as it should be — Blaine’s books and comics on the shelves, the photographs of them together hanging on the wall, and the piles of sheet music on top of the piano. His throat feels dry, but he doesn’t know if it’s from fear or relief, so he turns to look at Blaine again, blinking his eyes to get rid of the aching pressure behind his eyes.

“I’m—” he starts, but before he gets any further, Blaine interrupts him.

“Come here?” he asks. “I’ve been working on something, and I want you to hear it.”

His voice is so nervous and anxious that Kurt can feel a tear breaking free and falling down his cheek. He swallows and nods, and then walks slowly, cautiously, to the piano, Blaine’s eyes staying on him the whole time.

He is about to stay standing next to the piano, worried about crowding Blaine, but then Blaine pats the empty space next to him on the stool. Kurt blinks.

“Come here,” Blaine says softly. “Please.”

Kurt swallows again and sits down. The stool is small, barely big enough for two people, and he has to sit as close to Blaine as possible, their thighs brushing against each other. He can feel the heat of Blaine’s body, see the shadows on his face up close, and his muscles ache to reach out and hold his husband, but they haven’t really said anything yet and he’s afraid he might break this careful atmosphere if he moves too fast.

The last time they were both sitting on the piano stool together was a few months ago. They were singing a romantic duet, Blaine’s movements sure and happy, both of them a little tipsy and silly after an excellent date night. They’d sung at least five duets from their shared repertoire, giggling through them together, until Kurt had leaned over and captured Blaine’s lips with his own in the middle of the chorus of _Perfect_. He can still remember what Blaine’s smile had felt like against his mouth, even though right now that evening feels like a lifetime ago.

Now Blaine licks his lips, and Kurt’s eyes follow the movement.

“I... It’s not finished yet, but...” Blaine stumbles over his words, stops and places his fingers slowly over the keys. “Just—”

It hurts Kurt’s whole being to see Blaine so nervous, especially about music, the one thing he’s usually so sure and excited about around Kurt, and he can’t stop himself from reaching out and laying his hand over Blaine’s wrist. Blaine turns to look at him, his eyes wide and his face so still.

“Please?” Kurt asks quietly.

Blaine nods. He takes a deep breath and plays the first notes.

It’s not a song Kurt has heard before, not one of the melodies Blaine was experimenting with before their fight. It’s slow and sad, a little melancholy, like a tune playing in the background of a movie when the main character breaks their heart — but when Blaine keeps playing, the fingers Kurt loves so much moving deftly over the keys, the sadness fades away little by little, replaced by something that sounds more like a promise.

Blaine has always been good at expressing his feelings and thoughts in song.

The melody doesn’t seem to have any words, but Kurt can see Blaine’s lips mouthing something, can distinguish the words _I will be_ and _promise you_. There’s an undercurrent of hope in the song now, running through the notes, and suddenly there’s a lump in Kurt’s throat, making him gasp for breath and tremble against Blaine.

Because Blaine gets it. He understands what Kurt has been feeling these past few days, because he has felt it himself. He has been here, in their apartment, surrounded by everything they have built together, pouring his feelings into music because that’s what he does, and now he’s letting Kurt see and hear those feelings in the best way that he can.

He’s trying to tell Kurt that they will be okay.

Kurt leans against Blaine, as slowly and carefully as he can, but Blaine doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t falter in his playing, and finally Kurt can see Blaine’s shoulders relax, the lines on his face fading away, his eyes closing as he focuses on the song and lets Kurt keep him up.

Blaine is always honest with his music, almost painfully so, but this song is so raw, so aching and sincere that Kurt feels like closing his eyes as well. But he can’t — he can’t tear his eyes away from Blaine’s hands, from his face and the familiar slopes and angles of his body. He has missed him. He has missed everything about Blaine. He has missed him so much that he has no idea how to express it, except to give Blaine and the song his full attention.

Eventually the melody ends, the last notes echoing in the apartment, but they don’t move away from each other.

“That was new, wasn’t it?” Kurt asks quietly after a moment, fighting down the ungraceful sob that threatens to break free from his mouth.

Blaine nods.

“It was beautiful.” Kurt laces his fingers with Blaine’s, relieved when Blaine doesn’t pull away but tightens his own hold instead. “Probably one of your best, though I think that about every single song you write.”

“It’s...” Blaine clears his throat. “The lyrics aren’t ready yet, but it’s going to be something about... staying together even when the honeymoon is over. Even when there are rough times or when you make a mistake.”

“Is that how you feel about us?” Kurt asks, his voice careful and nervous. He has to be sure.

Blaine squeezes his hand. “Of course, Kurt. These last few days have been awful. I shouldn’t have—” He stops, closes his mouth and frowns down at their joined hands, clearly considering his words. “I shouldn’t have left like that, not without talking to you and making up,” he settles on, his words quiet and slow. “Especially because you were leaving. But then you were gone when I came back, and I— I didn’t want to deal with this over the phone. It felt... wrong, somehow.”

“I know.” Kurt wonders if it would be too soon to kiss Blaine’s temple already. He really wants to have that connection right now. “I wanted to call you, but I had no idea what to say.” He lets out a choked-up laugh. “I even had this awful nightmare and couldn’t concentrate at all in the meetings. Isabelle noticed.”

Blaine’s eyebrows furrow. He’s still staring at the piano. “I should have called you.”

“No, Blaine—” Kurt shakes his head and gives Blaine’s hand another squeeze. “You were right. Talking about this on the phone would have just made things worse. We’re better when we can talk in person. The distance makes everything harder.”

Blaine turns to look at him at last, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a sad smile. “I barely slept at all,” he confesses. “The bed felt... weird, and empty. Without you.” His eyes go all wet and wobbly and earnest, and Kurt knows they’re both about to start crying. “I’m— I’m sorry I called you all those awful things, Kurt,” Blaine chokes out, his grip on Kurt’s hand tightening.

“I’m sorry I brought up the cheating,” Kurt counters, the words he’s been holding on for too long finally bursting free. “I’m so sorry, Blaine. You— You know I’ve forgiven you, right? You know that— _ages_ ago—”

“I know,” Blaine says, and then, finally, he leans over and brushes his lips over the corner of Kurt's mouth, and if Kurt hadn’t been crying before, he most certainly would start now. The kiss is careful, barely there, even, but Kurt has learned during the years that sometimes with Blaine even the smallest gestures can mean the most.

“Blaine—” he manages to gasp before he loses his words. But it’s okay. Blaine’s name will always be the most important, the dearest and most meaningful word in his personal vocabulary.

Blaine chokes out a sob, as if the way Kurt says his name is the final straw needed to unravel him, and Kurt pulls him in immediately, wrapping his arms around his husband at last. They crumble against each other, Blaine’s hands fisting the lapels of Kurt’s jacket and Kurt’s hands tightening on Blaine’s back — and then Blaine’s lips are on his, desperate and forceful, as if he hasn’t kissed him in years even though it’s only been a couple of days. Kurt kisses back with everything he has, every dark fear in his subconscious, every little corner and nook in him that will always love and miss Blaine.

The kiss tastes like salt water from their tears, and Blaine’s lips are a little chapped, as if he has been worrying them between his teeth too much — he does that sometimes, when he’s anxious or has spent too many hours working on his music — and Kurt knows his own lips are probably still sandpaper dry after the long flight, but he doesn’t care. Blaine’s lips are familiar. They are home.

Blaine’s hands slip underneath his jacket, pulling him closer, and Kurt’s elbow hits the piano keys as he tries to find his balance on the stool, a clash of notes drowning out the desperate noises Blaine is making at the back of his throat for a moment.

“I wanted to—” Blaine gasps against Kurt’s mouth, “to— to finish the song before you came back.” He pulls back a little, just enough to look into Kurt’s eyes, his lips red and swollen and distracting, but Kurt forces himself to focus on Blaine’s words. “But I couldn’t. Not without you here. I was too scared.”

Kurt swallows and lifts his hands to frame Blaine’s face, his thumbs sliding over the tear tracks and brushing them away.

“I know,” he says, because it needs to be said. “Me too.”

Blaine nods and blinks his eyes. His eyelashes are wet. “We should— we should make it a rule,” he says and then clears his throat. “Like some people have that rule of never going to bed angry? We should have that.”

Kurt can’t help the small smile that breaks over his face. “Never going to bed angry and never leaving without making up?”

“Yeah.” Blaine closes his eyes and leans into Kurt’s touch, his words a relieved exhale. “That.”

“I like it,” Kurt agrees and strokes his thumb over Blaine’s cheekbone again. “Are you going to finish it?” he asks after a beat. “The song?” he clarifies when Blaine opens his eyes in question.

Blaine thinks for a moment, his hand heavy when it moves down Kurt’s side, and then slowly his mouth curves into a smile. It’s not as wide and beaming as his smiles can be, but it’s still a smile, and it still makes Kurt’s heart feel a little fuller, a little warmer.

“Yeah.” Blaine’s smile turns soft. “I know how it’s going to end now.”

Kurt knows they’re not done talking yet, that they still need to discuss the fight and the things they hurled at each other, deal with the hurt and the nightmares. And they will, but not now. For now Kurt needs to keep holding on to his husband, needs to mess up his hair until it’s a tangle of gel and curls, needs to kiss him until their lips are sore and the kisses have stopped tasting like salt water — needs to feel Blaine’s warm skin beneath his hands and map out his body, just to make sure nothing has changed in the time they were apart. He needs to pull Blaine closer and not let go, not until he has been able to soothe away every single dark circle under Blaine’s eyes and every single tensed muscle in his shoulders.

Not until Blaine has done the same to him, until they are so tangled up together with nothing between them that it takes him a while to figure out where he ends and Blaine begins, where Blaine ends and he begins. They are two different people, but they are also a team. A unit.

So Kurt pulls Blaine’s mouth on his, kisses him in a way that makes words unnecessary, closes his eyes and doesn’t let go.

 

-

 

Later, when they are huddled together on their bed underneath the covers, Blaine’s bare thigh slotted between Kurt’s legs and Kurt’s index finger tracing abstract patterns on Blaine’s lower back, Blaine’s breathing changes its rhythm on an inhale and turns into a slow hum. Kurt recognizes the song instantly, the hopeful half-finished melody Blaine played to him earlier.

He closes his eyes and listens to his husband’s voice, feeling Blaine’s chest tremble against his side when the hum turns into sleepy words.

“ _Keep holding on — on the day that the dance is over, I will be your song..._ ”

Kurt smiles against Blaine’s curls. The room is familiar and theirs, just as it should be, and the scent of Blaine's hair gel lingers around them. 

They will be okay.

 

 


End file.
